This brought happy tears to my eyes

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A Slight Sashay... By Sherry R. Belul

I was walking the labyrinth when I realized that on stage the African body prayer was beginning. I could hear the drumming and sense the energy of the room as 500 people got up to begin to dance. In my mind, I was thinking, "Oh, man. I wish I weren't on this labyrinth. I wish I could be dancing right now instead of solemnly walking this long, winding path." When just moments before I had been thoroughly enjoying the quiet meditative state of walking the labyrinth, now I felt trapped. And I had that junior high school lunchroom feeling of being at the wrong table. All the fun was being had "over there." Where I wasn't. I was still doing walking meditation, one foot slowly in front of the other, following as exactly as I could, in the footsteps of the woman in front of me. But my mind was churning. I'm the sort of person who always has to do things "by the book." In this case, the "book" (a set of rules in my head, of course) said that one must not leave the labyrinth before completing it. And that one must be serious and meditative on the path. So I walked, one foot in front of the other, hands held in prayer position in front of my heart, watching and following the footsteps of the woman in front of me. Anyone from the outside would have seen a spiritual look on my face and in my posture. But my mind was dark and brooding.

And then something happened. Margie, the woman who brought the labyrinth, stepped onto the labyrinth from the side. Not the place you're supposed to start! She stepped on, and she started dancing the labyrinth. And the woman in front of me started sashaying to the music. She picked one foot up and placed it down, jauntily at an angle with some real oomph to it. I started sashaying. Margie was twirling and whirling and moving to the music as she danced the labyrinth. The woman in front of me was swinging her hips. People around us were smiling and moving to the music. I raised my arms over my head and began moving them like swans flying in time to the music as I, too, started twirling on the path, weaving gently around people. The labyrinth had become some sort of fairyland for me, where anything was possible. The "rules" (did they even exist?) were broken in order for life to flow in and move us. No longer was I at the wrong lunchroom table, but all the tables were the right ones. Everyone in the whole 30,000 square foot pavilion seemed to be having fun. No one was left out of the joy.

The woman in front of me and I both stepped off the labyrinth just as the African music was ending. Without a word, she turned to me and opened her arms. We hugged. Then parted.

Whenever I start to slip into despair, I think about what it felt like to hug a stranger after having sashayed and twirled the labyrinth in silence with her. I think about the surprises life offers, like people dancing on a labyrinth. I think about what it means to have hundreds of people spend a Saturday in San Francisco visualizing peace. I think about sitting in the audience, eyes closed, as we are asked to send wishes of comfort and ease to those sitting next to us. And those sitting next to them. And to the whole room. And to all of San Francisco. And to the U.S. And to all of the world. I think about the moment I started to cry during this meditation, because for a brief split second, I felt it could happen. I believed that not only was peace possible, it was happening. In that split second I imagined I could feel everyone in the world at peace and free of suffering.

I'm still in the same café. The rain is falling and that man behind me is still talking about politics and war. But I am not afraid or angry or lonely. I'm imagining your faces. Those of you who I know. And those of you whom I've never met. I'm smiling, as I think about how fortunate I am to spend a morning with people like you. I suspect there will be a slight sashay to my step as I get up to take my dirty dishes to the counter.

In Lovingkindness,
Sherry

Reprinted from "Simply Celebrate," a free email newsletter by Sherry Richert Belul, Copyright 2004.